


Distant Voices

by cosmosmariner



Series: Distant Voices 'Verse [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Bad Decisions, Break Up, False Identity, M/M, a lot of soul searching, but ultimately hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:49:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmosmariner/pseuds/cosmosmariner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wrong words - the wrong time - and two lives change…</p><p>This is the story of two strong willed men who make a decision that impact their lives and the lives of those around them for years to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I: The Times, They Are A-Changin'

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in its completed form at my writing journal 1/13/11.
> 
> With thanks to Sparky, Charlie, Svetlanacat, and G, for their support and feedback during the beta stage.

I am not ready for repentance;  
Nor to snatch regrets. For the moth  
Bends no more than the still  
Imploring flame. And tremorous  
In the white falling flakes  
Kisses are,—  
The only worth all granting.

It is to be learned—  
This cleaving and this burning,  
But only by the one who  
Spends out himself again.

\-- from "Legend" - by Hart Crane

**Act I:  
 _The Times, They Are A-Changin‘_**  


December 30, 1968

“To Napoleon Solo!”

“Cheers!”

The party was small but festive. Wanda, along with Shirlene, Sarah, and Angela, had made little egg salad finger sandwiches, red velvet cake and champagne punch for Napoleon’s birthday. Many of the guys were there, but conspicuously absent was his partner, Illya Kuryakin. Napoleon pretended that he was hurt, but secretly was thrilled. He knew that his friend was planning a surprise party of his own, and there were only two on the guest list.

Thirty-eight was not a milestone birthday, but a reminder that he was getting older. Even that morning, he noticed a few grey hairs near his temples, and his back was stiff and sore when he rolled out of bed. His back was tight again, and after he gave all the girls a friendly peck on the cheek, he went back to his apartment.

He practically knelt in front of the shower, the nearly scalding hot water pounding on his muscles. Napoleon closed his eyes and allowed the water to sluice over him. He felt Illya’s presence near him, and when the Russian’s large hands began to massage Napoleon’s scalp, he moaned in a way that relayed the pain and pleasure of Illya’s ministrations.

Feeling almost boneless, Napoleon reached out for Illya’s leg to brace himself. Illya reached down and took Napoleon’s hand, pulling him up in a smooth, fluid motion. He then wrapped his arms around him and rested his head against Napoleon’s heart.

“Happy birthday,” Illya murmured.

Napoleon kissed Illya on the top of the head and continued to hold him close. “It is when you’re here,” he replied.

Illya dried Napoleon with a freshly warmed towel, then led him into their bedroom. The bed had fresh linens. Napoleon yawned, and Illya helped his lover into bed, following close behind. Napoleon curled into a snug ball, tucked in behind Illya. He rested his chin on the top of Illya’s head, breathing in the warm, fresh scent that Illya always had. The smell that was more alluring than the most beautiful perfume, at once heady and soft, a scent that was more powerful and satisfying than any aphrodisiac that one could imagine.

Illya took Napoleon’s hand into his, held it to his lips and kissed his palm tenderly. “Happy birthday,” he said again.

“Love you,” Napoleon said sleepily.

Illya stoked Napoleon’s arm as the brunet gently drifted off to sleep. Napoleon wasn’t the only one getting older. Illya’s birthday was a little over a month ago and he had turned 37 himself. The same aches and pains that Napoleon felt when he woke up plagued him.

He had talked to Napoleon about the future only a week before. Illya was tired of living in the shadows. He wanted so badly to tell everyone that Napoleon was private property, as it were, and to openly admit that they were together - had been for the last four and a half years. The journey from friend to lover had been a long and arduous one, but for Illya, it was well worth it. It was a rare treat when your best friend was also the love of your life.

Illya was no fool - the world wasn’t ready for the truth about his and Napoleon’s relationship. But he wanted something more than just hidden passions. He wanted some sort of acknowledgment on his partner’s part.

He sighed and snuggled closer into Napoleon’s embrace. “I love you, too.”

January 10, 1970

Napoleon stared down the barrel of time. He was getting too old to be an effective field agent. In a few years, he could be a desk jockey, and then he would make the eventual trip to Waverly's office. He had a good run, his life was fulfilling and comfortable, and he knew he would always have Illya by his side.

Illya - his best friend, his partner of many years, his erstwhile lover. They had been everything to each other for so long that Napoleon seemed to take him for granted. Why wouldn't he? Illya had nowhere to go, and he knew that he loved him.

The night was miserable; the rain came down in sheets. Napoleon was in his sleeping clothes and robe, sitting on a chair in the kitchen and downing glass after glass of scotch. Glenfiddich thirty year, to be exact. He heard a knock on the door and wondered who...but he knew who. The real question was why.

Illya stood at the door, shivering from being damp and cold. "May I come in, Napoleon?"

Napoleon looked at his partner. "Is something the matter, Illya? Is there anything I can do?"

Illya ran his fingers through his hair, the wet strands sticking to his forehead. "There's nothing you can do. There's something we can do. We can do something about this."

Napoleon's brow cocked curiously. "This?"

"All this, Napoleon. You and I living separate lives, like we don't matter to each other. Do you ever wonder what it might be like if we didn't work for UNCLE? What we might do when we retire - if we just take off and go somewhere we can be together?"

"No."

Illya looked crestfallen. To Napoleon, it felt like an eternity passed before he spoke again. "No?"

"We can't, Illya. Don't you read the news? Don't you know what happened last year down in the Village?"

"I _live_ there, Napoleon. I could hear the riots through my window! Of course I know what happened. It doesn't change anything."

"It changes everything!" Napoleon said. "We are agents of UNCLE, we have been all over the world and have seen the best and worst of people. Don't you think I've thought of this? Don't you think..."

"I don't know what you think, Napoleon. I'm tired of living a lie. We need to do something. Anything."

Napoleon frowned, shook his head. "I need a drink."

"No, you do not." Illya's voice was stern. "You need to think. You need to talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"As you said, Napoleon, we are agents of UNCLE. We can save the world every other week, do things that most men dream of, and yet you're too scared to…”

"This is not about fear! This is about being smart."

Illya looked wounded, as if Napoleon had ripped out his heart. "And you insinuate that I am not smart, _Pasha_?“

“I never said that. God damn it, Illya, will you let me just explain things?“

“There is nothing to explain, unless you’re willing to have a conversation with me.“

“I’m not in the mood.“ Napoleon grabbed his glass and took a deep swallow.

Illya sighed. “When did you need to be in a mood to talk to me?“

“Since today, Illya. It’s late. Seriously, why did you come here?“

“Napoleon. We must talk. I need to know… Do you care about us?"

Napoleon looked at his feet. It was too much, so much. The silence stretched for minutes, and when he looked up he did not look his partner in the eye. "Illya..."

"Your reticence speaks volumes, Agent Solo." Illya turned on his heels and walked out the door, slamming it behind him. Napoleon did not follow.

The next morning, Napoleon woke up, sprawled on the kitchen floor. His head cried out for mercy. He tried calling Illya. There was no answer at his apartment. He remembered the night before - Illya’s wild, haunted look, the argument. Napoleon drove his car to the Russian’s apartment building, rummaged through his glove compartment to find the key. Bounding up the stairs, he stood in front of Illya's door and pounded on it.

"Illya? Illya, open the door."

The key felt heavy in his hand, but he used it to unlock the door. He walked inside to a nearly empty room.

"Illya? This isn't funny, partner."

No pictures on the wall, his vinyl records were gone. There was nothing in the apartment - nothing that suggested that Illya had ever lived there. Napoleon raced into his bedroom. The bed was neatly made, but there were no clothes in the closet. There was nothing, except for something small on Illya's bedside table. Napoleon sat on the bed and gingerly picked it up. It was a finely painted miniature in a gilt frame. Napoleon recognized it as being Illya's great-grandfather. It was one of the last pieces of the past that Illya had left...and he had left it here, where he knew Napoleon would find it.

He held the precious painting in his hands and quietly began to cry.

The next seven hours seemed to fly by. Napoleon drove straight to UNCLE HQ and tore apart their shared office, taking every scrap of paper out of Illya’s desk, asking every person he bumped into in the hallway if they had seen him, if they knew where he would be. He was in the middle of harassing a janitor when Waverly interrupted.

“Mr. Solo, a word, please.”

Napoleon followed his boss into his office, paced the floor like a barely controlled tiger. “Mr. Waverly, I need to know where Illya is.”

“I don’t know. I thought you might be able to tell me.”

“What do you mean?” Napoleon said, his voice sharp with a hard, icy edge. “You don’t know?”

Waverly tapped his pipe on the edge of his desk, then looked Napoleon squarely in the eye. “I received a call at home from Mr. Kuryakin last night. He asked for a leave of absence. An immediate leave of absence. I asked him what happened, and he said that it was no one’s business but his own. I told him that it was only temporary, that he had four years of vacation time accrued and that he should take it. I don’t expect I’ll hear from him anytime soon, but I did think that you would know where your own partner was.”

Napoleon sunk to the chair opposite Waverly. “It’s my fault. I did it.”

“Did what, Napoleon?” The Old Man looked at his Number One shrewdly, but kindly. “What did you do?”

The brunet hung his head, cradled it in his hands. “I ran him off, sir. I have to get him back. Will you help me?” he asked, as he looked up into Waverly’s eyes.

The Old Man was no fool. He knew everything about his agents. He knew the relationship that Solo and Kuryakin tried to keep secret. It worked for most of the agency, but Waverly knew. “Napoleon…I don’t know if I can. I think this is something that I can’t fix.”

Napoleon hung his head again. “That’s what he said. Before he left. He came to my door, sir. He told me that we had to talk. I didn’t want to talk, I was nursing a drunk and wanted to go to sleep. I said the wrong thing, the wrong way, and he left. He…left….” the words trailed off.

“You can, of course, use all of our resources here, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said, all business again. “And… I will also give you a leave of absence. A week, Napoleon. Nothing more. I trust you will accomplish what you need to in a week?”

“Yes… yes, sir,” Napoleon said, clearing his throat.

“Good. Go on, then.”

Napoleon ran back to his office, calling every person that had ever owed him a favor, and some who didn’t. He called contacts at Scotland Yard, Mossad, a friend of Illya’s who was still in the Kremlin. He called Port Authority, FBI, CIA, private detectives he had known across the country.

The next seventy-two hours were a blur. He rarely ate, sleeping only thirty minutes at a time and living off hot, bitter coffee. He followed every lead, none of which panned out. He began to scour the streets, going to subway stations, taxi companies, bus terminals; along the way he stopped random strangers and showed them Illya’s picture. No one had seen him.

It was almost as if Illya Kuryakin had fallen off the face of the earth.

At the end of the week, he had made a decision. He walked into Waverly’s office and explained to his mentor, the man he had been groomed to replace for years, that he no longer wanted to work for UNCLE. It was obvious that Illya was not coming back, and UNCLE without Illya was unthinkable. Waverly sighed, shook his head, but knew that once that iron will had been set, there was nothing short of the voice of God that would stop Napoleon Solo from doing what he wanted to do.

“I wish you well, son. If I hear anything, I will let you know.”

Napoleon smiled sadly. “I know, sir. Goodbye.”

Waverly clasped his hands. “Not goodbye. Never goodbye.”

Four months later, there was a march in Greenwich Village. Napoleon was drawn to the area, hoping against hope that he would see his partner there, wondering if the crowd would reveal something or would spark remembrance. He sat in the park, watching Christopher Street like he would have looked for THRUSH only a few months ago.

Napoleon looked around, his thoughts racing. These young men and women were out there marching, carrying placards and banners, freely holding hands, arms linked together in defiance and unity. He could have kicked himself. Illya came to him, wanting only to talk about their future, wanting to know where they stood. _And you blew it, Solo. You chased him away._

There hadn't been anyone but Illya for years. He could count on one hand the times he had even kissed a woman in the last couple of years, much less slept with one. The few times that he had done so was in the name of the mission he was on, if it was the only way to put a plan into motion. Even then, it was more a one-sided affair. He received no pleasure from it, it was only a job. When the mission was over, he would come back to Illya and shower him with affection and love.

How could Illya not see that?

But then Napoleon thought again, to their earlier partnership, when women were just as disposable in his life as they were after he and Illya began their relationship. He had a little black book - two, if he were honest - and page after page was filled with women, numbers, time zones. What Illya didn't know was that six months into their relationship, Napoleon ripped the pages out and burned them in his fireplace. He didn't need them anymore. He had everything he wanted, everything he needed.

How did Illya not know that?

The kids marched down Christopher Street, dressed in smart suits, ratty jeans, homemade dresses; all walks of life were making their stand. Two or three of them started to sing "We Shall Overcome." Another group started to sing "The Times They Are A-Changin'". What if the times really were changing? What if he could have held on for just a few months longer, without fear of being discovered?

He continued to sit there, on that park bench, listening to the optimistic voice of youth cry out to be heard, to be accepted, to be known. All those things that Illya had wanted four months prior. And Napoleon shut him out.

What if he had chased Illya down that night? What if he had ran in front of the door and stopped him before he left the apartment? What if Napoleon had told Illya that he was scared, but he could face his fears, face the future if he was by his side? Only fools played what might have been, Napoleon thought to himself. It's a game that one cannot win.


	2. Act II: Don't Look Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living is easy. It's the memories that's hard.

**Act II  
 _Don‘t Look Back_**

  
  
April 1971  
  
One year had passed since Professor Alexander Kulik joined the faculty of Midwestern State University. He quickly adapted to the campus life. The other professors respected him, and the students liked him. His discipline was Slavic studies, and in his spare time, he gave private guitar lessons to local high school and university students.  
  
He enjoyed his work. It was fulfilling and intellectually stimulating. His guitar students were bright and fun.  
  
And he was still lonely and sad.  
  
The daffodils were blooming on Leary Hill, the main campus area where the Regents’ House and Administration offices were located. Kulik walked up Leary Hill every day, past the Old Red Barn where the athletic departments were located, past the main cafeteria building and provisions hall, to Greek Street, then to the tiny block of row houses where his small apartment was located.  
  
Kulik made a light snack of leftover fried fish and dark bread, and a bottle of beer. He had forty-five minutes until his favorite student came to the door, ready for their guitar lessons.  
  
Jacob Liebhaber was 15 years old, and his mother Pauline worked as a secretary in the Slavic studies department. Mr. Liebhaber died in a boating accident in Lake Superior the year before and the young boy was rootless without a father. He had begun to act out in unhealthy ways, and his mother was concerned that he would go down a dark road. She had asked Professor Kulik if he would be willing to teach him guitar.  
  
“Professor, I cannot pay you your usual rate,” she began.  
  
“Nonsense, Mrs. Liebhaber. If you make a little extra food and bring it to me each week, we’ll call it even. You know how much I like your stuffed peppers.”  
  
Jacob started not long after that. He reminded Kulik of a colt; nervous energy, skittish and thin. The young man had dark brown hair and dark eyes, but he was almost translucently pale. He had large hands and long, graceful fingers - a perfect shape for jazz guitar.  
  
Jacob was a natural. Kulik barely had to show him anything - Jacob just absorbed it like a sponge. In the meantime, they would talk. The young man was fascinated by music, and shared many favorite artists with the professor. They both liked Dizzy Gillespie and Thelonious Monk. He also liked rock and roll, much to Kulik’s dismay. He trusted Jacob so much that he gave him a key to his apartment, knowing that sometimes the boy would stop by with a plate of pork chops and apples, or a fresh loaf of bread that Pauline made the night before.  
  
One evening, Kulik was not feeling well. He had given his class to a graduate student and took his leave, coughing and sneezing all the way up Leary Hill and down Greek Street. When he got to his apartment, he collapsed in his favorite overstuffed chair in the living room, falling asleep almost instantly.  
  
Normally, the dreams were kept at bay, but he was too exhausted from illness and too melancholy to think of anything else. Images floated there, just beyond his grasp; the things he wanted so tantalizingly close. He reached out, wanted so badly to feel.  
  
 _A slender, broad shouldered man with dark hair would stand before him, his hands reaching toward the professor. He would walk toward him, his hand almost there to touch, to hold. He would smile.  
  
“Illya. Will you follow?”  
  
“My Pasha. You know I will.”  
  
“Why didn’t you follow me?”  
  
The professor would reach out to him, but his hand was just only inches away. “I cannot reach you, Napoleon. I cannot reach!”_  
  
He was awoken by the still, gentle touch on his shoulder. “Hey, Doc. You all right, man?” It was Jacob.  
  
Kulik sneezed. “Yes, Jacob, but you must get away. I might be contagious.”  
  
Jacob laughed. “Too late, Doc. I’ve got it, too. It’s all over Memorial. You probably got it from me.”  
  
Kulik sneezed again, blew his nose in his handkerchief. “Well, young man, I hope you are willing to work this evening. Would you like to start on “Floyd’s Guitar Blues” then?”  
  
Jacob smiled. “Sure, Doc. But I gotta ask you a question.”  
  
Kulik frowned. “Must you?”  
  
“Yes, sir. Who is Pasha?”  
  
The professor paled. “Where did you hear that?”  
  
Jacob played with the neck of the guitar. “You were saying it in your sleep. You sounded kind of rough there, Doc. Is everything all right?”  
  
Kulik shook his head. “Pasha is someone you don’t need to know about.”  
  
“But you sounded really sad, Doc. What did she do to you?”  
  
 _She. At least Jacob didn’t know everything._  “Nothing. Nothing. Let’s play some blues.”  
  
July 1971  
  
Napoleon had taken the  _Pursang_  out to sea for the third time this month. He felt alive when the ocean breezes flowed across the deck. The boat was his pride and joy. He loved it - had always loved it- and had so many wonderful memories on the boat. Yet in the midst of all of these good memories, it only added to the intense feeling of loss that Napoleon felt. He and Illya had been on many jaunts in  _Pursang_ , and although Illya’s seasickness sometimes interfered in their travel plans, they both liked the little trips they took together.  
  
 _“Napoleon, do you have any tonic water left over?” Illya moaned, his head hanging off the side of the boat.  
  
“Mmmm. I believe I do.”  
  
“I don’t want to have to beg, my friend, but I would like it if you’ve got it.”  
  
Napoleon went down below deck and found a bottle of tonic. He brought it back up with a lemon slice and handed it to Illya. “Here. Drink it slow, lyubovnik. We’ll be to port soon enough.”  
  
Illya retreated to quarters not long afterward. Once they were within sight of the harbor, Napoleon set the anchor and went down below.  
  
Illya had stripped off his shirt, and was lying on the bed. His skin was shiny with sweat; the exertion from his roiling stomach was almost too much for him. Napoleon marveled at his partner’s form; so lithe and fair, and yet so strong. Like a domesticated house cat; able to leap and run, holding untold power in the most graceful of forms. However, Napoleon knew what others might not have known: inside the house cat was the soul of a lion.  
  
His little Russian lion groaned, sat up and slightly shook his blond mane.  
  
“Napoleon. Have you any peppermint candies?”  
  
“No, I ran out during our last voyage and forgot to stock up. Feeling a little queasy? I’m sorry, partner mine.”  
  
Illya smiled, winced a little as he felt his stomach muscles cramp. “Too bad.” He laid back down again.  
  
Napoleon climbed up on the bed with him, nestled his head between Illya’s shoulder and the pillow. “YA uteshu tebya?”  
  
Illya relaxed against him. “And you choose to ask in my mother tongue…you’re becoming sentimental.”  
  
“And again, I ask…shall I comfort you, Illya?”  
  
Illya slipped his hand into his partner’s, held it close to his heart. “You already do,” he said, drowsily._  
  
Napoleon longed to be able to crawl into bed with Illya and just lie there, holding him close. He hungered for the briefest touch from those calloused fingers, those hands that were large and strong and warm. The hands that had cradled his heart for so many years, and now left him as empty as the deserted sea.  
  
“Shall I comfort you, Illya?”  
  
January 1972  
  
Over the last year, the quiet young man and the taciturn professor had become close. The professor was the father missing from Jacob’s life, and he relied on him for guidance and wisdom more and more. The older man thought of the boy as the closest thing he would have to a son. He cherished his relationship with the young man - a person that, were it possible, would have been most like a child created by a union between he and Napoleon, so long ago.  
  
Jacob dropped his line into the small hole he had drilled into the lake; then settled into comfortable silence with the Doc. An hour or two passed without conversation. Finally, Jacob reeled in his line and set the pole down on the ice. He grabbed his thermos filled with hot chocolate and kicked back in his chair.  
  
“Hey, Doc?”  
  
Kulik looked up from his intense concentration. “Yes, Jacob, what is it?”  
  
“Is Pasha that guy in the picture by your bed?”  
  
Kulik jerked the fishing rod out of the water and it fell onto the ice, rattling as it hit the hard surface. “Why must you ask me these questions, Jacob?”  
  
The young man took a long pull of the cocoa, scratched his head. “Because I know it is, Doc. Admit it. I’m not going to think any less of you.”  
  
The professor reached over and grabbed his own cup of coffee. “You would be one of the few, boy. How do you know?”  
  
Jacob’s brown eyes twinkled with laughter. “I know you, Doc. Remember, I’ve heard you talk in your sleep when you doze off during our lessons. And that time that I came over to help you when you had the flu? And I tucked you in bed because you were too weak to get off the couch and do it yourself? I noticed the pictures in your bedroom.”  
  
The professor cursed. “I thought I had hidden it well.”  
  
“You did. But you can’t fool someone who wants to be a detective when they grow up,” Jacob said, smiling. “Besides, I worry about you. So, what happened?”  
  
“What happened to what?”  
  
“Pasha. What happened to him? Is he someone you knew back in Russia?”  
  
Kulik took another drink of coffee. “I can’t go into details, Jacob.”  
  
Jacob took his gloves off and rubbed his hands together, then stuck them back inside. “Doc, it’s getting colder in the shanty. We might need to go back soon.”  
  
“I think we can last a little while longer, boy.”  
  
Jacob snorted, then winced. “The air’s getting drier, too. God, my nose is killing me.”  
  
“You sound like Napoleon…”  
  
Jacob looked up, smiling. “Napoleon?”  
  
Kulik made a particularly Russian noise deep in his throat. “Napoleon.”  
  
“Ha! I knew it. It’s Pasha, isn’t it? It’s that guy in the picture!” He did a little dance, albeit gingerly, on the ice.  
  
“Yes. And that is his name. Napoleon Solo.”  
  
“You have got to be shitting me.”  
  
“Language, young man…”  
  
Jacob had the good sense to look chastised. “Sorry, sir. You’ve got to be kidding me.”  
  
Kulik frowned. “No. His name was Napoleon. And I, my boy, was someone else entirely. We worked for an organization; one that I think, in the future, you may find yourself in if you’re lucky and they make the connection.”  
  
Jacob stared at his mentor and friend, mouth gaped open. “You worked for the mob?”  
  
“No!  _Bozhe moi_ , no. It’s too difficult to explain to you, and you wouldn’t believe it anyway.”  
  
“Try me, Doc.”  
  
The professor shook his head. “I can’t.”  
  
“You can’t get away that easily. Who is Pasha, really? I want to know everything and I’m not going to stop asking until I get an answer.” The young man smiled.   
  
Kulik sighed, his breath escaping in small, wispy clouds of steam from the cold temperatures. He shrugged his shoulders. “I should have never taught you the secret of persistence, Jacob.”   
  
Jacob laughed, dropped his line back into the lake. “I’m waiting, Doc.”  
  
Kulik began to tell his story, slowly, giving the boy time to ask questions. He admitted that Kulik was an assumed name, that he was not really a Slavic studies professor, almost all of the secrets that he had kept to himself for years.  
  
The sun started to dip lower in the sky - Jacob could see it start to skim the horizon. “Come on, Doc. If I don’t make it home by dinner time, my mom will have my ass on a platter.”  
  
“Language!”  
  
The young man laughed. “You know it’s true.”  
  
Kulik laughed along with him. “I do.”  
  
The pair walked from the lake up Lambert Street back to the small house that Jacob and his mother shared. “You wanna come in, Doc? I think Mom’s making peppers…”  
  
“No, I’m going to go home. I have leftover roast and turnips that I made the other night.”  
  
Jacob pulled a face, sticking his tongue out. “Turnips. Ick. Oh, hey… do you want me to come by tomorrow for lessons?”  
  
The professor shook his head. “No, that won’t be necessary. Take the weekend off.”  
  
Jacob walked onto his front porch and started inside, then stuck his head out the door. “Hey Doc!  _Able I was ere I saw Elba!_ “ He closed the door swiftly.  
  
Kulik chuckled, pulled his coat tighter around him and began the trudge across campus to his own apartment. When he got home, he dropped his coat and snow boots on the floor and walked directly into the kitchen and poured a very generous tumbler of Oben that he rarely took off the shelf.  
  
“I never drink this,” he said to himself. “But tonight, I will make an exception.”  
  
 _“Scotch, neat. Always warms a man up,” Napoleon said, handing Illya one of his cherished crystal tumblers.  
  
The Russian shivered with cold. He had been out in a sudden snowstorm, caught outside Grand Central Terminal on his way to Napoleon’s apartment. His pants and shoes were soaked. Napoleon had taken the wet clothing into his bathroom and hung them over the shower rod.  
  
“Tovarisch, I have a pair of pajama bottoms that will be too big for you, but still comfortable. Would you like them?”  
  
Illya shook his head. “I normally sleep nude, Napoleon. You know this.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“You don’t want me to be uncomfortable, do you?”  
  
“What about me?”  
  
The blond man smiled. “You could also be nude.”  
  
Napoleon laughed. “You are a wicked, wicked man, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.”  
  
Illya cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t know the half.”_  
  
Kulik sighed. He walked into his bedroom and stripped down. It was a lonesome thing, sleeping by oneself.  
  
May, 1972  
  
Napoleon had spent the last six months in Leningrad, studying every last square inch of the Russian Museum. His life had been dedicated to knowing everything there was to know about the miniature Illya had left him. The curators tolerated him and his numerous questions; but to Napoleon, the answers could never fill the void. The void that yawned deep within him. He burned with questions that would not be answered until he found Illya again. Until that moment, he would transfer his passions to the nuances of Russian art.  
  
 _“Napoleon, you are the most passionate man I’ve ever known,” Illya whispered in his ear.  
  
“Mmmm. In what way?”  
  
The blond man draped his leg over Napoleon’s hip, pulling him even closer to him. “You have a passion for justice, for good wine, for dancing…” Illya licked Napoleon’s dimple. “…a passion for sex.”  
  
Napoleon sucked Illya’s earlobe into his mouth and bit it firmly. “I also have a passion for you, Illya.”  
  
“Do you?” Illya’s eyes glimmered with laughter.   
  
He ran his tongue up Illya’s ear. “Yes, of course I do.”  
  
They had been lovers for only a year, and it seemed that Napoleon could never get enough of his partner. Illya called to every part of him - his tender side, his tough side, the strong man and the soft hearted little boy. All were entranced and in love with Illya.  
  
He had not said it yet.  
  
Illya drew his leg further around Napoleon’s waist until their erections touched. He softly cupped Napoleon’s face in his huge hands and kissed his lips, then each cheek, the tip of his nose, his mole, each eyelid.  
  
“Illya…”  
  
Illya smiled. He slowly slid down the brunet’s body, kissing and nibbling down Napoleon’s chest, across his taut stomach. Napoleon moaned quietly, and called his lover’s name again.  
  
Illya stopped at Napoleon’s groin, flicked his tongue at the head of his penis. Then he moved down a little further, and tenderly drew one testicle into his mouth, sucking gently.  
  
Napoleon cried out, grabbing a fistful of Illya’s glorious hair. He bucked a little, yet Illya continued the worship of Napoleon’s body. He ran his tongue around the base of Napoleon’s penis, then ran it up the thick vein to the tip.  
  
“Oh, my god!”  
  
Illya glanced up, looked Napoleon in the eye, and then took possession of him with one swallow.  
  
The soft, velvet wetness of his mouth was almost too much for Napoleon to bear. He bucked hard, groaning, almost weeping with pleasure. “Illyusha, please, oh god, Illya…”  
  
Illya sucked harder, drawing him even deeper into his mouth, and then softly traced the curve of Napoleon’s ass with a calloused finger.  
  
Napoleon jerked, a yell and a sharp intake of breath announced his climax.  
  
Illya extracted his mouth slowly, lavishing every inch of Napoleon, cleaning him as he went. Napoleon reached down, took the blond by the hand and raised him toward him.  
  
His breath was shaky, his eyes dark with the passion that Illya had told him he possessed in spades.  
  
Could he tell him now? Would it be enough - would it ever be enough to say that he loved him, that he needed him more than he needed his next breath? Was it the wrong time? Napoleon thought he understood the human heart, the mysteries of love, but time and time again he found that with Illya he was always surprised.  
  
The Russian surprised him again.  
  
“Napoleon, what are you thinking?”  
  
Napoleon brushed Illya’s hair away from his eyes. “I was thinking that you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, Illya. And that I…”  
  
Illya put his hand on Napoleon’s chest, a gesture he had done over and over again. One that Napoleon knew told him everything that Illya wanted him to know. That he trusted him. That he loved him.  
  
It was time.  
  
“Illya, I love you,” he said, his voice strong and true. He bent closer to Illya’s ear and said it again, almost chanting it.  
  
“I love you. Illya, I love you.”_


	3. Act III: It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Internal wounds are the hardest to see, because everyone thinks you're okay.

**Act III  
 _It‘s Alright, Ma (I‘m Only Bleeding)_**

  
  
September, 1972  
  
The knock on the door was soft but insistent. Kulik grumbled and complained loudly until he opened the door and saw his pupil and friend Jacob slumped over the stoop.  
  
“Jacob! What the hell happened to you?”  
  
The pale young man hobbled into the living room, Kulik’s arm guiding him toward his own favorite chair. Jacob’s lip was split open. His right eye was swollen, puffy and purple. He had slight abrasions on his cheeks and chin, as if his attacker had been wearing a ring. By the looks of it, a class ring bearing the insignia of Smithton Memorial High School, for the intertwined  **SM**  was pressed into Jacob's flesh.  
  
“Doc…”  
  
Kulik flew into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of 7Up for the boy and ran back to his young friend’s side. “Jacob, you have to tell me what happened. Who did this to you?”  
  
Jacob’s shaking hands cradled the soft drink bottle. He took a small sip, cursing when the fizz touched his lip. “I was…attacked…Old Red…Barn…”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Kulik’s eyes were narrowed and turning a slate blue. Jacob had never seen the professor so angry in the years he had known him. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “They think I’m queer.”  
  
“Who does?”  
  
He shook his head. “No, Doc. I’m not going to tell you. Just patch me up so I can go home without Mom having a heart attack.”  
  
The professor rose to his feet, paced across the floor like a leopard on the prowl. “You must tell me, so I can have a talk with them.”  
  
“Doc… is talk a euphemism for an ass kicking?”  
  
“Language, young man.”  
  
Jacob laughed, then groaned as his sore muscles cramped. “Just some of the guys from school, sir. They jumped me outside the Old Red Barn. Said I was some sort of limp wristed queer boy.”  
  
“And where did they get this idea? Aren’t you dating a girl?”  
  
“Yes. But I guess you can date girls and still be…well, you know, sir.”  
  
Kulik nodded. He knew too well the secrets that people like him used to hide the truth, and remembered Napoleon’s overactive dating life, although he himself had long ago gave up living the lie. “That’s true. But why do they think you’re a homosexual?”  
  
Jacob took another drink of the 7Up and winced when he swallowed. He put the bottle up to his now burning eye. “Because of you, Doc.”  
  
“Me?”  
  
“Yes, sir. Dicky said that only a queer would hang out with another one, especially a Commie Red bastard.”  
  
Kulik frowned, flexed his fist in an anxious gesture. “And you said?“  
  
“I told him that it takes one to know one, sir.“  
  
The professor smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “I suppose you didn’t tell this Dicky that plenty of people pass by my threshold and none of them, to my knowledge, are homosexual? Or, for that matter, Communist? And that it‘s not contagious?”  
  
“Didn’t get the chance. He wailed on me.”  
  
“Jacob, do you think he has a point?” Kulik asked.  
  
“Jesus Christ, Doc! You’re like a father to me, who cares if you’re purple or Red or gay or Japanese or whatever. Besides, you‘re in America now, so you‘re one of us.”  
  
The professor smiled slightly. It was a Napoleon-like answer. His partner never seemed to accept the obvious answer - he always went for the least logical way.  _His gut_ , he called it. Nine times out of ten, his gut was right.  
  
Kulik had to listen to his gut now.  
  
“Jacob, I know that I told you that violence isn’t always the best way to solve things, that you should try diplomacy first. But sometimes you need to not listen to me. Or, rather, I should listen to myself and not to ghosts from my past. Tomorrow, we are not going to practice guitar.”  
  
“We’re not?”  
  
“No, boy. I’m going to teach you the proper way to fight off your attackers. You may not believe this, but I used to be able to fend off trained assassins in my youth.”  
  
“You’re right. I don’t believe it. Is this one of your Mob tricks?”  
  
Kulik yelped. “For the last time, Jacob, I was not in the Mob. Now, do you want to learn how or not?”  
  
The boy looked at his reflection in the polished lamp on the table next to him. He looked even worse than he felt. He swallowed hard and nodded his head.  
  
“Good,” Kulik said briskly. “Now. Drink up. I’ll accompany you home.”  
  
Kulik and Jacob walked back to the Liebhaber home. Jacob ran upstairs to avoid seeing his mother. “Doc!” he called down the stairs. “Don’t say a word.”  
  
Kulik shook his head, but agreed. When he went back home, he put a record on his set and laid down on his couch, propping his legs up with a fluffy pillow. He started to drowse, memories coming to the surface and taking root.  
  
 _“I’ve heard rumours that you’re a little light in the loafers there, Kuryakin,” said Belk, a Section Three. “I heard rumours that you’ve got the hots for your partner.”  
  
“Well, Belk, I heard a rumour that you were fighting for your life in Medical,” said a soft, dangerously low voice behind him.  
  
Belk turned around and was face to face with Napoleon Solo. The CEA’s eyes were narrowed, shooting daggers at him. “I would recommend that you leave Mr. Kuryakin alone and forget these ridiculous rumours. Obviously, it doesn’t matter a whit what he does or doesn’t do on his personal time. He’s an agent of UNCLE and, as such, he is worthy of the respect that you would give to any of us. Me, for instance. Mr. Waverly. Got it?”  
  
Belk nodded and scurried down the hallway. Illya sagged against the wall. “Napoleon, I don’t need you to fight my battles for me. You do realize that it makes me look weak.”  
  
“I don’t care. When they insult you, they also insult me, tovarisch.”  
  
“It doesn’t mean anything, Napoleon. I’ve dealt with it all my life, a lowly Section Three with a big mouth isn’t going to change anything.”  
  
Napoleon clasped his hand on Illya’s shoulder. “Tell you what. Why not come over to my place for the evening? We can have dinner. I’ve got leftover pot roast and a German Chocolate cake?”  
  
“Sounds great.’  
  
The two agents ate and talked through the evening. When Napoleon took the bottle of vodka out of the freezer and handed it to Illya, he smiled. “Want some?”  
  
“Of course,” Illya said.  
  
They both drank together, then Napoleon poured another shot and raised it for a toast. “To Illya Kuryakin. A man above all other men, first in the mind and heart of his partner.”  
  
Illya paused in the middle of hoisting his own glass. “First in the mind and heart…”  
  
Napoleon smiled. “First. Only. Always.”  
  
Illya set his glass down. “First. Only. Always,” he repeated.  
  
Napoleon reached across the table and grabbed Illya’s hand. “Tell me that what Belk said is only a rumour.”  
  
Illya shook his head. “I can’t.”  
  
“So…you have the hots for your partner, then?” His mouth curled a little, his eyes twinkling with delight.  
  
“Napoleon, I…”  
  
“Because, partner mine, I must tell you that the feeling is mutual. More than mutual.” Napoleon drew Illya’s hand closer to him, and stuck Illya’s finger in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digit.  
  
Illya gasped like he had been bitten by a snake. “Napoleon,” he whispered shakily. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Something I’ve thought about for a long time,” Napoleon replied, “Years, really.”  
  
Illya stood up hastily, jerking his hand out of Napoleon’s grasp. The dark haired man also leapt to his feet and in a few large steps was in front of the Russian. “Tell me that you don’t feel it, Illya. Tell me and I’ll leave you alone.”  
  
Illya opened his mouth to tell the lie, but found that he couldn’t speak. Napoleon smiled. “You feel it. I know you do. You want it as much as I do.”  
  
Illya could only nod his acceptance.  
  
“So you see why I had to do what I did to Belk. I only have my reputation protecting me. But when I stop flirting with every skirt that walks into UNCLE headquarters, they’ll start about me, too.”  
  
“Why would you stop flirting with girls? You’re so good at it.”  
  
Napoleon laughed. “Oh, Illya. For being an intelligent man, sometimes you ask the most stupid questions.” He grabbed him by the shoulders, pulled him close and kissed him._  
  
November, 1972  
  
It would have been Illya’s 41st birthday. Napoleon would have taken him out to dinner at some fancy steak house, took him back to their apartment, stripped him down and made love to him relentlessly. It was their usual way to celebrating, and to Napoleon it felt like the best way.  
  
The New York city skyline blurred against the unceasing rain. He stood near the window of his apartment, Scotch in hand, his robe wrapped tightly around him. Napoleon drank and looked out the window, Roberta Flack’s voice drifting out of the record player around him, like the memories that swirled within him.  
  
 _The first time ever I kissed your mouth  
I felt the earth turn in my hand  
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird…_  
  
He had felt that way about Illya. He still felt that way about him. The loneliness was crushing, debilitating, and it seemed that every day became more and more difficult to bear.   
  
The rain continued to beat down, matching Napoleon’s dark mood.  
  
 _The first time ever I lay with you  
And felt your heart beat close to mine  
I thought our joy would fill the earth…_  
  
He wondered if Illya was out there looking at the sky wherever he was. Napoleon wondered if he was as alone and lonely as he was. He hoped that Illya was happy. His partner had such a remarkable smile that he rarely showed the world, and it was Napoleon’s greatest pleasure to see that smile focused in his direction. Illya’s eyes were beautiful and his body delightful, but his smile was the thing that sent warmth throughout his body and chills up his spine. The smile that was so rare, so valued, and so desired.  
  
He remembered the first time Illya smiled at him. They had only been working partners for three weeks, and it had been a particularly trying affair. The innocent, a woman named Patsy, apparently had eyes only for the Russian. Napoleon’s charms did not work in the slightest.  
  
 _“Hey, Illya,” Napoleon said. “I wonder if you can get her to follow that THRUSH dame into the ladies’ room?”  
  
“Why do you think I’m the one to do such a thing?”  
  
“Are you blind? She’s goo-goo for you.”  
  
Illya’s ears turned a light pink color. He looked a little…_bashful? _“Napoleon, surely you don’t think…”  
  
“Yes, I think, and I know, too. Just do something, Illya. That little chickie is getting away and we need to learn her bird song.”  
  
Illya frowned, but walked over to Patsy and whispered in her ear. She nodded furiously and all but ran to the ladies’ room. He walked back to Napoleon and shot him a slight grin. The power of that small gesture made the hair on Napoleon’s neck stand up. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling._  
  
The song ended on the record, and Napoleon reached over, picked up the needle and put it on the well worn groove again. Roberta started her lover’s lullaby again as Napoleon’s forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window.  
  
He missed his partner so much.  
  
August, 1973  
  
In a few short years, Napoleon Solo had become a world renown expert in Imperial Russian artifacts. Solo and Associates had become a leader in the field. He had studied all over the world, given lectures at Ivy League campuses and art museums across Europe. The colleagues that he worked with at various universities throughout America all said the same thing: that Mr. Solo was driven toward his work, that he lived and breathed the nuances of the items he worked with, and that he was almost obsessed with a miniature that he carried with him everywhere he went.  
  
There were a few colleges that he had not spoken at, mostly in the Midwest and Deep South, where their Slavic studies departments were either small or non-existent. He found himself retreating more and more into the discovery of new items and less on the actual academic study. The few people he worked closely with found that he was a difficult man to know, and that he seemed to have a different reason to search out these rare and previous relics than they had.  
  
It was almost as if he was trying to bring someone back from the dead.  
  
He had started to become reclusive; and yet he was still charming. The women in the various offices he would visit would in turns sigh and swoon at the well turned man with perfect suits and distinguished graying at his temples. His eyes were dark and stormy, and his walk? Confident, cool, authoritative. Here was a man who understood the concept of power. However, from all apparent evidence, Mr. Solo was not prepared to take advantage of any situation. He was more likely to walk into a room quietly, take a quick assessment of the items and note them, then go back to his Fifth Avenue apartment in New York and do his research there.  
  
It wasn’t that he was difficult to work with, it was that he was impossible to work with. Solo and Associates was a misnomer - the company was Mr. Solo alone. He never made himself available to his colleagues and other researchers, and when he began a job in earnest, he worked around the clock. He usually only took small breaks, eating Italian food at a small café in Greenwich Village of all places, or spending an inordinate amount of time looking at the miniature that never left his side.  
  
He was driven, haunted by ghosts of an unknown nature. The demons that followed him were many, and they shadowed everything he did. The people he worked with knew better than to ask, but they whispered among themselves. There were rumors, of course; the miniature belonged to a late wife, or a former girlfriend, or the one that got away. They knew Mr. Solo would never admit or substantiate, so that’s all they were - rumors.  
  
To a person, they always thought the same thing:  _Whoever she was…I hope she was worth it._


	4. Act IV:  The Comatose Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories do not hold you when you cry.

**Act IV  
 _The Comatose Heart_**

  
  
November, 1973  
  
Thanksgiving weekend was a lonely time at Midwestern State. The students went home, as did most of the teachers and faculty. There were a few who were from the area, but they did not want to invite a Russian immigrant into their homes to share in this most American of celebrations.  
  
Alexander Kulik sat alone in his easy chair, listening to the needle skip on  _Kind of Blue_  over and over. He never did get a replacement record even though this one was scratched to kingdom come. The scratches were why he kept it in the first place.  
  
 _“Illya, do you mind? I’m trying to read this book, and I can’t concentrate with all this music.”  
  
“Music should always accompany fine literature. What are you reading, anyway?”  
  
“Raymond Chandler.”  
  
The Russian smirked. “In that case, the music will make the reading go by faster.”  
  
“Tovarisch, you read your book, and I’ll read mine,” Napoleon said, laughing.  
  
Illya walked over to Napoleon, bent down near his ear and whispered something that caused the dark haired man to laugh even harder. “Oh, yes? Is that a fact?”  
  
Illya murmured into Napoleon’s ear again.  
  
“I see. I see…”  
  
Illya took the book out of Napoleon’s hands and threw it across the room. The book hit the hi-fi set and caused the needle to scratch across the vinyl’s surface.  
  
“Illya…your record…”  
  
The Russian looked up, his eyes twinkling. A Cheshire cat grin spread over his face. “I think we are capable of making our own music, don’t you, Napoleon?”_  
  
The heavy knock on the door woke him up. When he answered, he saw Jacob and Mrs. Liebhaber standing at the door. “Dr. Kulik, would you like to join us for turkey and dressing?”  
  
“Yes, I would. Thank you, both of you.”  
  
He grabbed his coat and began to walk with the family down Greek Street and past Leary Hill, past the Old Red Barn, down the other side of Lambert Street and across College Avenue, to the little bungalow that the Liebhabers lived in. “Professor, make yourself at home. The turkey is in the oven still, and I only need to make the green bean casserole.”  
  
Jacob took out his guitar and began to play. Kulik sat down on a wooden chair he had taken from the dining room. While his mother finished making the meal in the other room, Jacob grabbed another chair and sat next to the professor. “Hey, Doc. You’re missing Napoleon, aren’t you?”  
  
Kulik’s jaw dropped. “I…”  
  
“You don’t have to tell me, Doc. I already know. My mom’s missing my dad a lot, and I thought you might miss your Pasha as well. That’s why I asked Mom if you could come over for dinner. I know Russians don’t usually celebrate Thanksgiving, but…”  
  
Kulik smiled. “But, Jacob…Thanksgiving is a time for family, yes?”  
  
Jacob nodded. “Yes.”  
  
“Well, then,” Kulik said, rising to his feet. “Shall we eat turkey, then?”  
  
December 30, 1973  
  
She had called. “Honey, don’t you want to do something tonight? It’s your birthday and all, a big day for you. I could come over…”  
  
“No. No, I have made other plans, they are unbreakable. But thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow, huh?”  
  
Napoleon stopped celebrating three years prior, marking the time only with massive amounts of alcohol and old records played over and over again. He had been seeing someone, but today, of all days, he wanted - no, needed - to be alone. He never realized how much he needed Illya for the little things as well as the big ones. The gentle touch on his back when he had the occasional spasm, a light joke, a quick smile…  
  
 _He woke up before Napoleon. He always woke up before him. For a man who could sleep anywhere, at any time, Illya always seemed to be awake before him when they slept together. Napoleon wondered why that was, but never asked. He just assumed that Illya had enough sleep for the moment.  
  
The morning light shown through the window. Illya’s hair glinted like various metals - brass, copper, silver shined in the gold. Napoleon adored his partner’s hair. It was so soft, so silky, and it smelled so good. He loved to bury his nose into the blond locks, breathing deeply of the clean, earthy smell that was the very essence of his lover.  
  
Illya snaked his arm around Napoleon’s waist and held him tight. “Mmmmm. Pasha. You are like fine wine.”  
  
“Expensive and gives you a headache if you have too much?” Napoleon asked drowsily.  
  
“No, Dorogoi, you are better with age, and rare…and so, so sweet,” Illya murmured, nuzzling his nose against Napoleon’s ear, then licking the lobe slightly.  
  
His lover shivered. “My present, then?”  
  
Illya hummed, the sound echoing low in his throat. “I have other presents for you, but this….this is for me alone, Pasha.”  
  
He turned his face toward him, nibbled down his jaw then quickly flicked the dimple on his cheek with his tongue. Napoleon moaned in pleasure, reached out to take Illya into his arms. He acquiesced, moving closer and closer until their bodies seemed to meld together.  
  
“Illya, please. I need you.”  
  
His pleasure grew, waves upon waves, crashing into him with a violence that frightened him. Illya was in turns tender and wild, and the raging passion that reigned within him leaped out, like tongues of flame, and burned Napoleon everywhere his lips touched him.  
  
“Illya…”  
  
Words would not do - only touch, only feelings, only the ragged sound of their breathing mattered now. Napoleon’s quiet whimper, Illya’s fevered groan, the soft, slick sound of their lovemaking.  
  
When the dam broke, it was Illya who cried out; Illya, who lived his life with such austere discipline, who made the world at large feel as though he could freeze with a look. Napoleon - only Napoleon - knew the Illya within, the one who felt so strongly, so keenly, that it threatened to destroy him. His passions, his hunger, and the depth of his love. Napoleon would happily drown in it.  
  
Illya rested his head upon his lover’s chest. “Ma brune,” he whispered, putting his hand on Napoleon’s heart. “My heart. My heart beats with yours, Napoleon.”_  
  
January, 1974  
  
The snow fell as a great, heavy blanket outside Professor Alexander Kulik’s door. It was Friday evening. Most of the students had barricaded themselves in their dorm room. Kulik himself had canceled his last class and walked to the provisions hall to pick up milk and bread, then he walked the three blocks from campus to his apartment. He always took the New York Times; had it delivered by mail every day. It was a day late, but it was still the paper of record, even here in the Midwest.  
  
He scanned the paper, every last page, looking for a mention of him. Normally, he didn’t find him, but nevertheless, he searched. He had made himself a cheese sandwich and a glass of beer for a light snack, settling down to read the social pages last.  
  
Three hours passed. The radio mentioned something about a snow emergency, and that people should not leave their homes. Kulik had no intention of leaving. It wouldn’t have mattered, though, as he was in the tiny sitting room with a bottle of Stolichnaya and a rumpled copy of the paper’s wedding announcements. The lights were flickering in the room, so Kulik lit a few oil lamps that he had, casting a dim but suitable glow over the table.  
  
Kulik poured another shot of vodka, raised it in the air in a mock toast, then gulped it down. “To your happiness.”  
  
The bottle was only half empty; he normally didn’t follow superstitions from the old country, but tonight it seemed appropriate. He poured another shot, then another, each time following the tradition of toasting.  
  
“Bah. His bride, Miss Bunny Houghton. Of course he would marry a woman named Bunny,” the man spat out the word.  
  
Kulik’s sandy blond hair fell into his eyes - the professor wore it longer than most of his peers. He ran his hand through his hair, took another shot, then stared at the paper until his eyes burned with unshed tears. “Bunny is not the name of someone who loves you, Pasha.”  
  
He picked up the bottle, now a quarter full, and threw it against the wall. “Napoleon…” he whispered as he fell onto the floor.  
  
\--  
  
"Doc? Hey, Doc, you in here?"  
  
Kulik moaned and lifted himself off the floor. "Jacob?"  
  
The young man ran into the dining room, held his hand to the professor and raised him to his feet. "Oh my god, Doc. Are you all right?"  
  
"Yes, Jacob. I'm fine. Aren't you a little early?"  
  
Jacob shook his head. "Doc, it's two in the afternoon. How long have you been out? And didn't you wear those clothes yesterday? I swear I saw you in that turtleneck near the Old Red Barn."  
  
"And so you did, Jacob. I had a rough night last night."  
  
The young man started cleaning up the shattered bottle on the floor. "So I noticed. I guess it's not a good idea for me to get the guitar out, then?"  
  
Kulik sat in the recliner in the living room. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I haven't neglected a session with you yet. I won't do it today, either. You may want to play something soft, though. I think I'm starting a headache."  
  
The young man played a medley of Django Reinhardt songs while Kulik sat, tapping his fingers on the side of the chair. He closed his eyes, and the music took him away to a small club in Paris. His memories began to grow stronger with every strum of the guitar.  
  
 _It was a little club off the beaten path called Le Magicien Noir. The tables were small and filthy, and the musicians adequate at best, but the champagne was decent and cheap, and the atmosphere as dark as its name._  
  
They were celebrating the capture of three THRUSH operatives and the occasion called for dancing and wine. The club was having a gypsy jazz night.  
  
"You should dance, tovarisch. I know you know how, I've seen you do it once or twice," his partner teased.  
  
"Napoleon, I'd much rather watch you dance. Besides, there's only one lady here who wants to dance and I'm sure she'd rather dance with you."  
  
"Ah, but Illya... I think I would rather dance with you." Napoleon wiggled his eyebrows and laughed.  
  
Illya was pleased that the lights in the club were so dim, because he felt a blush creeping across his cheeks. "Go on. Dance with her. I may join you later." He smiled.  
  
"Doc? Doc? You all right?"  
  
The professor opened his eyes. "Jacob. I'm tired. You may want to go home. I'm sorry to cut this lesson short."  
  
"It's okay, sir. I understand hangovers. I'll see you." He put the guitar back into its case and left the apartment.  
  
Kulik got up and walked into his bedroom. He picked up a frame that sat on the bedside table. The picture it held was of himself, only younger; he had shiny golden hair and a brilliant smile that lit up his face, and beside him, an elegant man, sable brown hair combed just so. There was a look in the taller man's eyes, unknowable yet familiar.  
  
"Napoleon. Why did you do it? And why did you let me go?"


	5. Act V:  Blonde On Blond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loneliness is such a sad affair...

**Act V  
 _Blonde on Blond_**

  
  
April 1974  
  
She leaned against the doorway in what she thought was a seductive pose; standing akimbo with her chin raised up slightly. She was wearing the blue linen pajama top that Napoleon had purchased for her - although she never wore the pants, saying that a lady never needed to cover her assets, then laughing at her own terrible joke.  
  
He wondered if she realized that he had to drink more and more to be able to be intimate with her. It was so much easier before, when he was still able to fool himself into imagining that she was he, but that was impossible now.  
  
He remembered when he first met her, a little over seven months before. She was a coat check girl at the theatre and she caught his eye, mostly because she had little elvin ears that slightly stuck out, an angular nose, and a strong, sharp jaw line. Her hair was brown and her eyes a dull blue, but there was enough there to work with.  
  
He approached her, turned on the vaunted Solo charm. "Hello, lovely lady. And your name is?"  
  
She looked up at him, with a too big smile and a devious look in her eye. "It's Bunny," she giggled, with a slight lilt that suggested somewhere Southern.  
  
"Bunny. Interesting name. Is it short for something?" he asked.  
  
"Oh, no. Just Bunny. Might I ask yours?"  
  
He kissed her hand, being careful not to look too closely at her lips, which were a glossy red abomination. He preferred lips that were soft, full and pink. Like Illya's. "It's Napoleon."  
  
She laughed. "Oh, that is rich. You expect me to believe that?"  
  
Napoleon frowned and cleared his throat. "You should. It is Napoleon. Napoleon Solo, to be exact."  
  
Bunny smiled. Her teeth were bright - a little too bright - and her front two teeth were too big. She did, indeed, resemble a bunny. She laughed again. "Well...Napoleon. It's a pleasure to meet you."  
  
He sought her out again and again. Napoleon made small hints about things, such as how fetching Mia Farrow looked in "Rosemary's Baby", how much he liked blond hair, how Audrey Hepburn in "Funny Face" was the most stylish woman he had ever seen. Slowly, she would change small things in her appearance. When she left the salon with freshly blond hair and a sweeping fringe, Napoleon knew how Jimmy Stewart felt in "Vertigo" when Kim Novak appeared before him, his fantasy made flesh.  
  
That night, he took Bunny to bed. The lights were out, but the moon and city lights shone through the window, casting a pale reflection on her short blond hair. Napoleon looked at her and saw Illya instead. Sense memory took over; the night in Paris when they shared a bed for the first time, the weekend in Vermont when they were snowed in and had sex to keep warm, then made love just because. The first time they were intimate in this very apartment. He could see it all in his mind's eye - Illya rising above him, the stern face melting into that of a tender lover, watching his eyes squeeze tight when on the cusp of release. Illya was everything. He was the moon pulling Napoleon's tide.  
  
He spoke soft and low, in Russian, his imagined partner's language of love. " _Ya lyublyu tebya...Illya..."_  
  
Thankfully, Bunny was not a conversationalist, nor much of a linguist.  
  
After he came, wordlessly, Bunny sighed, snuggled next to him. "What were you saying, just now? Sounded like gibberish."  
  
Napoleon ran his fingers through Bunny's hair - it didn't feel anything like Illya's, the chemicals from bleaching had made it harsh and coarse, not at all like the natural cornsilk he was so desperately hoping to feel. "Oh, nothing. I do a lot of thinking in Russian."  
  
May, 1974  
  
Jacob had graduated from high school, and his mother had saved enough money to purchase him a new record player. Kulik gave him a few jazz albums and Rachmaninoff. He was certainly his favorite pupil, and much to his surprise, a dear friend. He reminded him of himself, if he had been a guileless young man instead of bone weary at 18. He also reminded him of Napoleon; boundless energy and youthful optimism radiated off of Jacob.  
  
He cracked the door open and stuck his head in. "Hey, Doc? You around?"  
  
"Yes, boy. Come in. How's your mother?"  
  
"Mom is fine. Here, she sent over a pan of meatloaf. She said she won't be able to come by to clean tomorrow afternoon."  
  
The professor took the food and put it on the counter in the kitchen. For years, Mrs. Liebhaber offset the cost of Jacob's guitar lessons by sending over enough food for an army, for which Kulik was grateful. It was boring cooking for one.  
  
"I got something else for you too, Doc."  
  
Kulik pushed his glasses back up his nose, walked back into the living room. "Yes?"  
  
Jacob handed him an album. "I got an extra one from Laurie, and thought you might like it. I know you're not one for rock and roll, but this is different."  
  
"I'm sure I'll like it, Jacob. Thank you. Are you ready for your lesson?"  
  
"No, sir. I had to drop this stuff off, but I gotta go. Laurie's waiting for me," he said, his cheeks turning a bright red. "Put that record on, Doc. I'm telling you, you'll dig it." The young man left the apartment, leaving Kulik alone with his thoughts.  
  
He put the record on and let it play. Jacob was right; he did like this. It wasn't rock and roll like his students listened to. It was a mix of folk, jazz, Celtic music. He sat back in his comfortable chair and closed his eyes, just listening to the music.  
  
His mind began to wander, and he thought of Napoleon. Everything made him think of Napoleon these days.  
  
 _"Illya, there's no reason for you to sleep alone."  
  
"You blockhead. There's only one bed and it's too small even for me, much less the both of us. I'll sleep on the floor."  
  
Napoleon grabbed the pillow and put it next to his on the bed. "Nonsense, partner mine. You will sleep here, with me. I want you to."  
  
Illya looked at him, made a Russian sound under his breath.  
  
"Illya. I need you to."  
  
Wordlessly, the Russian climbed into bed with his partner. Napoleon curled his arm around him, drawing him close. Illya could feel Napoleon's breath on his skin, warming and tickling him. He tried and failed to repress a giggle.  
  
"Napoleon, stop."  
  
His friend laughed softly. "Why?"  
  
"I'm trying to sleep."  
  
Napoleon nuzzled his ear. "I'm trying not to."  
  
Illya turned his head toward his partner. Napoleon pressed soft lips to his. Illya shifted in the bed and found himself wrapped in Napoleon's embrace. "What?"  
  
"Shhh. Dorogoi?." He clutched Illya closer to him. "I need you. In every way."_  
  
The song on the record began to drift into his consciousness, infusing itself into his memory of that night with Napoleon.  
  
 _And I want to rock your gypsy soul  
Just like way back in the days of old  
And magnificently we will flow into the mystic_  
  
Kulik wiped the tears freely flowing down his cheeks. He realized that walking away from Napoleon was the worst mistake he had ever made, in a life filled with regrets and mistakes. But it was too late. Napoleon had Bunny, and who did he have? A handful of acquaintances, two or three students and their parents that he could consider friends, a professor or two he could have dinner with. The closest relationship he had was with a teenage boy who worshipped him as one might a favorite baseball player or movie star.  
  
He felt as though his life was a metronome - a steady pace, steady beat, yet going nowhere. The music that once resonated through his life no longer played, and he only had himself to blame.  
  
Late October, 1974  
  
“Napoleon, don’t you think that maybe he doesn’t want to be found?”  
  
Napoleon exhaled sharply. He gripped the phone tighter in his hands, as if the extra force would be felt across the wire. “But I have to find him.”  
  
The soft voice of April Dancer crackled through the line. “I know you do. I know. But Mark had a point. If we can’t find him, maybe he’s not to be found.”  
  
“I refuse to believe that!”  
  
“As do I, but we can’t discount the evidence. You know it’s true.”  
  
Napoleon sighed again, ran his hands through his hair. “So you’re saying I should give up? I should let him go?”  
  
“Haven’t got a choice, chap,” Mark said. Obviously he was listening in on an extension.  
  
“What do you know, Mark? You’ve still got your partner.”  
  
Mark harrumphed. “Solo, old boy, if April wanted to get rid of me she knows how to do it. And as good as you were with covert operations, who was your go-to man for secrecy?”  
  
“Illya.”  
  
“Right. So do you think he’s just conveniently forgotten how to be stealthy?”  
  
“No.”  
  
April’s voice echoed through the wire again. “Napoleon, we must be going. But maybe… maybe you shouldn’t give up, but just open your horizons?”  
  
“Sure.”  _Never._  “You and Mark enjoy the play.”  
  
“Will do! Keep in touch, all right?”  
  
Napoleon hung up the phone. What he needed was a distraction, someone to keep his mind off of Illya. It was hard to do, though. Every waking thought was focused on finding Illya, on turning back time, on undoing the damage that he had done.  
  
He went out into the night, to a little dive bar that he had gone to a few times when it seemed the four walls of his apartment were caving in on him. He ordered a Gibson, then another, and was on his third when a woman sat on the barstool next to him.  
  
“Hey, handsome,” she purred, raking him up and down with her eyes.  
  
“Hi.”  
  
“You’re busy?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Would you like to be?”  
  
“No.”  
  
The woman pursed her lips. She didn’t seem too bad. She was a sandy blonde with lush lips - she looked like a Breck Girl. That sort of woman used to charm him, but not so much now. “Well, baby, I won’t wait around forever.”  
  
“Good. Don’t wait around, then.”  
  
The woman smiled and walked away. Napoleon looked down at his glass. He threw a handful of bills on the bar and walked out.  
  
New York was a city that never slept, but sometimes neighborhoods indulged in naps. The street was mostly deserted. Small groups of men were standing on the corners, unappealing looking ladies of the night were prowling the area. Napoleon pulled his jacket closer to him and continued up the avenue.  
  
He made his way to Central Park, walking aimlessly through the trees and past the ponds. He stopped, looked up at the sky and noticed the stars. He had lived in New York for years. The sky reflected the electric glow of the city, and the stars seemed dim. It wasn’t like his grandfather’s farm, where the stars seemed to explode and go on for miles, with no other lights to compete.  
  
“Where are you, Illya?” he said to no one in particular. “Are the stars bright there, or are they few?”  
  
He walked back to his apartment. Bunny was lying on the sofa, sleeping. Napoleon picked her up and carried her to their bedroom, tucking her into the bed. He stripped to his underwear, then went to the bathroom to take a shower.  
  
He took the bar of soap and lathered heavily. His hands traced over the light scars on his abdomen, evidence of his life with UNCLE. Evidence of his life with Illya.  
  
 _“Allow me,” Illya murmured.  
  
Napoleon lifted his arms and allowed his partner’s large, strong hands to soap his body carefully. He took care with Napoleon’s stitches, softly caressing his skin, being more than tender.  
  
He lathered the soap again, ran his hands up and down Napoleon’s legs. Then he reached his groin. He gently, slowly cleansed his partner there. Napoleon groaned with pleasure. Illya’s calloused hands caught on Napoleon’s soft skin.  
  
“Illya,” he growled.  
  
“Not yet, gorgeous,” Illya replied. He reached up and rubbed soap across Napoleon’s chest, sliding back and forth on wet, smooth skin.  
  
Napoleon bent down, kissing his partner full on the lips. Illya responded in kind, opening slightly, feeling the dance of his lover’s tongue on his own. Napoleon caught Illya by the hand, pulling him close, holding him tight against him. The shower beat on his back as Illya ran his hands through his hair, threading his fingers through the thick, wet strands.  
  
Napoleon only held him - his body was too sore and too bruised to do all the things he wished to do. Illya knew instinctively, and continued to kiss him, hold him.  
  
Napoleon nipped at Illya’s chin. “I love you.”_  
  
The water turned cold. Napoleon shook himself out of his fantasy and turned off the tap. He dried himself, slipping on a soft terry robe. He went back to his bedroom, saw Bunny lying demurely on her side of the bed, softly snoring. It would have been so easy to slip into bed with her, wake her up and lose himself in pleasuring her.  
  
He left the room and slept on the Murphy bed in his office, instead.  
  
Mid-December, 1975  
  
“Napoleon, honey, can I come in?”  
  
Napoleon frowned and cursed underneath his breath. “I’m busy, Bunny. I’m working.”  
  
She leaned against the door. He could hear her knees hit the wood. “Oh, come on. You’ve been in that room for two whole days. You’ve only come out to use the bathroom and grab a can of peanuts.”  
  
“I’m  _working_ ,” he said again, stressing the words. “Someone has to pay for your last trip to Herald Square.”  
  
“I have to look nice, Napoleon,” she whined. “Why don’t you pay attention to me anymore?”  
  
 _Since I realized that you are a poor substitute for Illya,_  Napoleon thought. “I pay attention to you, Bunny. You’re letting your hair grow longer.”  
  
“You’ve noticed! I like it. I think it looks chic.”  
  
“I don’t,” he said flatly.  
  
Silence at the other end of the door. Finally, he heard a loud exhale of breath and a sniffle. “I don’t know why you want me to wear my hair so short, honey. Makes me look like a man.”  
  
Napoleon rubbed his temples. “No, you look like Bunny. Only Bunny.”  _Much to my sadness._  
  
She knocked on the door again. “Please, let me in for a moment.”  
  
Napoleon sighed, unlocked the door and let her into the room. There were piles of papers and folders that weren’t filed. Photographs were strewn across the walls. On an easel was a large sketch pad with drawings and details written in various colored pencils. Bunny walked closer to his desk. There were three framed pictures. One was a finely painted miniature of an older gentleman that she had seen before. A second one was of Napoleon, who looked in his early thirties, and an impossibly young looking blond man. The blond was looking up at Napoleon with a smirk on his face. Napoleon, for his part, was staring into the young man’s eyes. It seemed almost too intimate for a photograph. It made Bunny feel uncomfortable.  
  
The third picture was of the same young blond man, but by himself. He was wearing a white shirt and a black tie, sitting at a desk with a pair of black glasses on. He was looking down at the desk, writing something. The man had an intense look on his face.  
  
Bunny wondered who this man was. He never came to their home and she was sure that Napoleon did not see him socially, mostly because Napoleon rarely left the apartment.  
  
She looked around the room, trying to see what other secrets it held. She noticed that there were no pictures of her. In fact, there was nothing in the room that would show that she even existed. But there were other pictures of the blond man. There were sketches and drawings of him in various poses, casual snapshots.  
  
“Honey pie, who is that man?”  
  
Napoleon scribbled on a notepad. “What man, Bun?” he asked, chewing on a pencil.  
  
“That blond man?”  
  
“A friend, doll. An old friend of mine. Now let me be, huh? I got work to do.”  
  
Bunny left the room and closed the door. She heard the lock snap almost immediately. She walked into their bedroom and put on her pajamas. The bed was large and cold. Napoleon never slept there anymore. It seemed he lived in that office, surrounded by memories of someone that he wouldn’t share with her. Sometimes she didn’t feel married.


	6. Act VI:  There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We cannot change the past. However, we can change the future.

**Act VI  
 _There Is A Light That Never Goes Out_**

  
  
December 26, 1974  
  
 _“Illya…you shouldn’t have.”  
  
“Why not? You wanted it. It’s Christmas. You’re always buying things for me, why can’t I do the same for you?”  
  
“This had to have cost a fortune.”  
  
Illya shook his head, his hair flying into his eyes. “Not really. I found it in Boston while we were there the last time.”  
  
“You had the time to actually shop while we were in Boston?”  
  
“Yes. And I had them ship it to my apartment so you wouldn’t see it.”  
  
Napoleon set the box aside and stood up. He walked over to Illya and put his hands on either side of his face. Napoleon leaned down and kissed him tenderly on the lips. “Thank you,” he whispered. Illya could feel the words on his mouth more than he could hear his lover’s voice.  
  
Napoleon continued, “It’s perfect. It’s beautiful. Like the man who gave it to me.”  
  
Illya smiled. “I had hoped you’d like it.”  
  
Napoleon kissed him again, then ran his hands down Illya’s arms. He took him by the hands and raised him to his feet. “I love it. I love you, Illya. Let me show you how much. How very much…” his voice trailed as he began to kiss Illya’s neck._  
  
The knock on the door woke Kulik up from his nap. He rubbed his eyes, looked around the room. No Napoleon. He was alone, again - it was only a dream. He cursed his luck, but walked to his door and opened it.  
  
Jacob stood at the other side, holding a large box adorned with a gaudy bow. “May I come in, Doc?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
The young man set the box down onto the floor then followed the professor into his living room. “Sir? Did I wake you?”  
  
“Yes, I was taking a nap, but that’s all right. I’m glad to see you.”  
  
“I asked Mom if I could come over today and give you your present.”  
  
Kulik rubbed his eyes again, yawned, and sat back in his favorite chair. “Why aren’t you at home, Jacob? I know your aunt was coming to town. Didn’t you want to see her?”  
  
Jacob pulled a face, biting his bottom lip. “Honestly, Doc? I hate Aunt Beryl. I’d do anything to get away from her. Besides, I thought if I dropped your present off at your house I could take a detour to see Laurie.”  
  
“You and Laurie have been seeing a lot of each other lately.”  
  
The young man smiled. The tips of his ears turned a bright red. “Uh. Well, yes. I mean, we’ve always been friends, you know, but there’s something else. Something different. It’s weird.”  
  
“What’s weird about it?” Kulik asked.  
  
“I mean, I’m not sure why it’s weird, but it is.” Jacob looked around the room, tapped a rhythm on his knees with his thumbs. “Doc? How do you know when it’s love?”  
  
Kulik sighed, rubbed his temples lightly. “Jacob, why do you ask me these things? Why don’t you ask your mother these questions?”  
  
“Because you know that Mom would start to cry, and say  _Oh, my baby! My Jakey!_  and squeak and blubber all over the place.”  
  
The professor laughed. “I guess you have a point.”  
  
“Besides, I trust you, Doc. I know you’re not going to lie to me.”  
  
“Jacob…I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask about love. I mean, look at me. I’m alone in a town where I know no one, I don’t even own a cat because I want to be alone…”  
  
“…and no one I know has been in love for as long as you have, except for my mom. And, you know, the crying and stuff.”  
  
Kulik frowned. “If you want to call that love. Frankly, I call it stupidity.”  
  
“Well, I want to know if I’m being stupid or in love, or an idiot or what?”  
  
“Laurie.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Jacob, you’re too young for anything serious. You’re still a boy, and when you leave Smithton, you’re going to meet some other girl and fall in love with her.”  
  
“Doc…I can’t imagine my life without her.”  
  
“Jacob, I thought I was in love a thousand times when I was a young man. I thought I was in love in Paris, and in Oxford, and in Leningrad…but when it’s real, you know.”  
  
“I’m trying to understand.”  
  
“There’s nothing to understand. When it’s real, when it’s love, you don’t have to ask. You know it. You know it like you know that you’re breathing. Jacob…if you’re asking me, you’re not in love.”  
  
“But I love Laurie. I do!”  
  
Kulik took a drink of water, cleared his throat. “It seems like it now. But trust me on this one, Jacob. All right, here’s a question. If Laurie told you that she loved someone else, what would you do?”  
  
“I’d be pissed off.”  
  
“Would you let her go?”  
  
Jacob frowned. “I don’t know.”  
  
“That’s what I’m talking about, boy. If you loved her, you’d let her go. You can’t force someone to love you.”  
  
“Are we talking about Laurie now, or Pasha?”  
  
“Laurie. Of course, Laurie.”  
  
Jacob shook his head. “No. I think we’re talking about you and Napoleon now. Is that what happened, sir? Did he not love you?”  
  
“No, he loved me. But I thought he loved something else more. And I refused to be second in his life.”  
  
“That sounds dumb. Shouldn’t you want to be with him if he loves you? And if he loves you, don’t you think he would make that choice sooner or later?”  
  
Kulik chuckled. “And you’re asking me for love advice.”  
  
“No, seriously, Doc. If Napoleon loved you and you loved him, couldn’t you work it out?”  
  
“It’s not always that easy.”  
  
“Doc…you’ve got to find Pasha. You’ve got to tell him.” Jacob’s brown eyes were bright with excitement. “You can get him back!”  
  
“It’s too late. He’s married. He’s got a woman named Bunny.”  
  
“But you love him.”  
  
“Love is not enough, Jacob. Now, leave it alone. Let us open our gifts, and you can go on your merry way to Laurie’s and stop talking about things that you shouldn’t be talking to me about.”  
  
Jacob shook his head. “I’ll come back later. I’m late enough as it is. Laurie was expecting me ten minutes ago. Goodbye, Doc.”  
  
Kulik watched as his young friend left the apartment. His head hurt, his stomach was full of rock hard knots. He knew he was full of excuses, and none of them were valid. As much as he hated to admit it, Jacob was right. He was just as wrong as Napoleon was. His willingness to believe that Napoleon could not possibly love him as much as he loved his partner was a stupid mistake to trump all the stupid mistakes he had made in the last four years.  
  
He thought of all the times that Napoleon had held him close, done small kindnesses for him, rubbed his back. He thought of Napoleon, his laughing eyes, that lock of hair that would fall onto his forehead after they had made love, the strength of his arms wrapped around him during the night. The feeling of his hand on his brow when Illya would be seasick on the boat, or having nightmares, smoothing that ache away with just a touch.  
  
Was that love? Did he really walk away from it? He did, and now it was too late.  
  
New Years Eve, 1975  
  
Bunny put up a hell of a fight, but so far she only broke three cut crystal tumblers and a lamp.  
  
"Who is she, Napoleon?"  
  
"I swear, Bunny, there's not another woman," Napoleon said, ducking the items she pitched at his head.  
  
"Very cute, you lizard. There's not another woman? Then who the hell is Elisha?"  
  
The name stopped him cold, and a Lladró figurine flew past his ear. "Not Elisha."  
  
"Then who is it?" she screamed.  
  
" _Illyusha._  I said Illyusha, not Elisha."  
  
"I don't care if it's Illyusha or Elisha or the goddamned tooth fairy, Napoleon. I want to know who she is!"  
  
Napoleon leaned against the wall, rocking on his heels. His voice was oddly quiet. "And I told you, Bunny, that there's not another woman."  
  
Bunny frowned, then ran to the guest room that doubled as their shared office. She came out with a photograph and shoved it in Napoleon's face. "This man? This is what this is all about? Why would you say his name in bed? What the hell is going on?"  
  
Napoleon took the photo from her hand. He looked at it tenderly, and at that moment, Bunny knew what was going on. She fell to her knees, sobbing.  
  
"I'm sorry, Bunny. I never meant to hurt you."  
  
Bunny wailed, rocking back and forth on her knees. "I can't believe it. Is that why you married me? Because I looked like him? Is that why you made me dye my hair blond? Well, is it?"  
  
He only nodded.  
  
"You fruity bastard. You're sick!" Bunny looked up at Napoleon, a cold fury on her face. "How long?"  
  
"Always. He's gone, Bunny. I can't get him back. So I thought I'd do the next best thing. I'm sorry, Bunny. I did care about you."  
  
Bunny laughed, a hysterical and nervous sound. "You cared about me. But you didn't love me, Napoleon. You loved this Elisha..."  
  
"Illya. His name is Illya."  
  
"Illya," she scoffed. "Well, you lost him and you'll lose me. And you'll lose this apartment, and your car, your fucking boat, and your nest egg, and your precious," -she threw another figurine- "precious miniature..."  
  
Napoleon grabbed her by the arm. "I'll give you whatever you want, Bunny. But you will not take the miniature."  
  
Her eyes narrowed. "Why's that so important to you? It's just an ugly old man."  
  
"You'll never know, will you? I'll just get what I need and leave."  
  
A moment later, Napoleon came out with a suitcase and a suit jacket slung over his shoulder. He grabbed the photograph that Bunny had brought out of the office and tucked it into his pocket. "Everything that's left is yours to do what you wish. I'll contact a lawyer and make the necessary arrangements. And you'll get a settlement. I've got everything I need. I'll take care of things." He put his finger underneath Bunny's chin and lifted her face to his. "Au revoir, Bunny."  
  
Two hours later, Napoleon made his way to a small hotel room and unpacked the suitcase. There were a few clothes, a stack of clean underwear, a handful of photographs and the miniature. He picked up the painting, stared at it for a long time.  
  
"I will find you. I'm going to get you back, somehow."  
  
August, 1975  
  
Alexander Kulik’s anger burned hotter and brighter than a hundred suns. “You did what?”  
  
Jacob’s head bowed. “Professor, I knew you wouldn’t take the first step, so I did it for you.”  
  
“You lied to Dr. Pike. You falsified documents. You impersonated me!”  
  
“I had to, Doc! You wouldn’t have done it.”  
  
“Why did you do it?”  
  
“Because I couldn’t let the opportunity pass.”  
  
The professor took a deep breath, sat down in his chair. His hands were shaking. “How… why did you look, Jacob? I told you long ago, the past is the past.”  
  
“Yes, but you also told me a long time ago that the future is unwritten.”  
  
“You’re not allowed to use my own words against me, young man.”  
  
Jacob’s brown eyes narrowed. “Too late. I just did. Doc, you know that you can still put a stop to it. I can tell Dr. Pike that you’ve decided to go a different route.”  
  
“No. I’m not a coward. I’m not going to start being a coward now. I only wish you would have told me about this before you told Dr. Pike.”  
  
“And you would have put a stop to it. But I knew that, and that’s why I did what I did. You’re not curious how I found him?”  
  
“I’m curious why you looked in the first place.”  
  
“Because you love him, Doc.”  
  
Kulik sighed. “You had no right, Jacob.”  
  
“I did. I do. You’re my best friend, and you deserve to be happy.”  
  
“Still…”  
  
“The ball’s in Pasha’s court now, sir. Don’t let it go.”  
  
The professor sat down in his chair. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, then began to chew on the end of his glasses. “You had  _no right_ , Jacob. There are reasons why I haven’t seen Napoleon in five years. Did you forget that the man is married? Even if he was still interested, I am not the type of man who would break up a happy home.”  
  
“What about an unhappy home?”  
  
“Not that, either!” Kulik said, raising his voice. “I am not a machine that can just…I have  _feelings_ , Jacob.”  
  
“I know, Doc! But you need to face it. You just said you aren’t a coward. Prove it.”  
  
Kulik was breathing heavily. “I’m not. I’ll see him. Who knows, he might not even want to come. He might have forgotten me.”  
  
Jacob smiled quickly, then sobered up. “Yes, sir. I doubt it, sir.”  
  
“I’ll speak with Dr. Pike soon and give him a piece of my collection. If Napoleon still cares about me, he might recognize it.”  
  
Late Fall, 1975  
  
Napoleon had received a call from a Doctor John Francis Pike, the dean of students at Midwestern State University, that sounded intriguing. It seemed that a professor at the college had a small but impressive accumulation of Imperial Russian artifacts and wanted an appraisal on the collection.  
  
"Mr. Solo, I have been told by many that you are an expert on these things, and we want only the best to look at the items. Professor Kulik is a valued colleague, and I want to make sure that this is done the best way possible."  
  
The back of Napoleon's neck began to tingle; a leftover affliction from his years investigating with UNCLE. Something set alarm bells off in his mind, but he dismissed it. "Tell me more about this collection."  
  
Dr. Pike's voice was rough and scratchy, with an almost droning quality. "There's not much I can tell you. He doesn't want to show the entire lot without knowing that someone will take a look at it. He specifically mentioned you, though, which makes me believe he's familiar with your work."  
  
"I don't know anyone named Kulik. How long has he been working at your university?"  
  
"A little over four and a half years. He came to us from NYU."  
  
The tingle was back, stronger than before. Napoleon ignored it. "Is there something that you can recommend to me to make it worth my time to travel to Midwestern State?"  
  
Pike was quiet for a moment, then it sounded to Napoleon like the professor was shuffling papers. "Aha. Professor Kulik has a small miniature in a frame that seems to be hand painted. It's beautiful, it's of a young woman. I can send an image via Western Union if that's acceptable."  
  
"Please do. Of course, it depends on the miniature. Good day, Dr. Pike."  
  
A few hours later, a telegram came to Napoleon's apartment. He tore open the envelope eagerly. What he saw shocked him. He had seen this before.  
  
It was Nadezhda, Illya's grandmother.  
  
"Strange that this Kulik would have a painting of Illya's grandmother," Napoleon thought. "Maybe he's seen him. I have to go, appraisal be damned."  
  
He called Pike immediately. "Hello, Dr. Pike? Napoleon Solo. I've decided I'll take the job. Set up a hotel for me, I'm taking the next flight to Chicago and driving up."  
  
\--  
  
Napoleon drove straight to the small college town of Smithton, past a fraternity row, a large block of brick buildings, and on to the ivy covered Georgian inspired building high upon Leary Hill. He made his way to Pike's office, almost breathless with anticipation. "Dr. Pike?"  
  
The man had a slight build, a dark complexion, brown eyes and black hair liberally streaked with grey. He wore a poor blue suit and a tie too wide for his narrow face. "Yes. You must be Mr. Solo." He shook Napoleon's hand. "I suppose you'd like to see the professor's collection."  
  
Napoleon nodded.  
  
Pike buzzed his secretary. "Nadine, will you please call Dr. Kulik and ask him to join us?"  
  
Napoleon paced nervously, staring out the window. Pike's office had a view off Leary Hill toward the entire university. In the distance, he could see the large lake that Smithton was situated on. It looked very much like a welcoming place. He might enjoy it here.  
  
Pike slammed his hand on his desk. "Damn. I'm sorry, Mr. Solo, but I completely forgot an appointment I had with a major donor. It's in ten minutes and if I'm going to make it, I'd better hustle, as the kids say. I'll tell Nadine to let Alexander in. We'll talk soon, I'm sure," Pike said as he ran out the door.  
  
Napoleon continued to pace, his heart racing. He wondered why he felt so nervous, so strange. This Kulik had probably seen Illya in the past few years. He may even know him. They may have even been lovers. Finally, he sat down in one of the chairs, taking deep, relaxing breaths. He was no good to himself if he was out of control.  
  
He was a wreck. He had chased down mad bombers, insane poisoners, men who thought they were vampires, for God's sakes; he had flushed out dirty spies and double crossers and made the world safe for almost two decades. He thought he could be cool under pressure, but this was a unique situation, to say the least. Napoleon felt as though his entire life depended on what Alexander Kulik had to say to him.  
  
The door opened and closed just as swiftly. Napoleon stood, began to turn on his heel. Suddenly, he heard a sharp gasp, and looked up to his visitor...Illya Kuryakin.  
  
They were both silent for a moment, although Napoleon could have sworn that his heartbeat echoed across Pike's office. Too afraid to speak, he took a step forward.  
  
Illya had not changed too much. His hair was a shade or two darker, but still a sandy blond, still a little too long. His face had softened a little, the planes of his jaw now like a Gaussian blur. But his eyes...his eyes were still the same fathomless blue they had always been. Now they shown bright as a lighthouse beacon, and to Napoleon, the drowning man at sea, the light he could steer home by.  
  
His hands shook as he approached his long lost friend. " _Prizrak?"_  
  
Illya looked him directly in the eye. "No. Not a ghost. Flesh and blood."  
  
Napoleon choked on his next question. "Can I... may I please... Why, Illya?"  
  
Those bright blue eyes continued to bore into his. "I cannot say. But you are here now, as am I. Napoleon... you don't know how long I've wanted to do this, to reveal myself." Illya looked down at his partner's hands. "Where is your wedding ring?"  
  
"How..."  
  
"I saw the announcement," the Russian said quietly.  
  
"No more. We divorced. It was final in March."  
  
The quiet was almost deafening. Illya drew closer to him, and Napoleon could see that he, too, was trembling slightly.  
  
Napoleon pushed Illya's hair out of his eyes, a habitual and intimate gesture that he used to do without thinking. Two errant tears escaped Illya's left eye, rolling down his cheek. Napoleon took a finger and wiped them away, drawing them to his own lips. "I never want to make you cry again, Illya."  
  
The blond looked down. "No one has called me Illya in five years. I've been Alexander Kulik for so long that I almost forgot what my name sounded like."  
  
Napoleon lifted the man's chin up, looked him squarely in the eye. "Then let me remind you. Illya. My Illyusha."  
  
Illya backed away. "You can't do this. Not here. You can't just come into Dr. Pike's office, say a few choice words and sweep me off my feet. Not now."  
  
"I'm not sweeping you off your feet. I'm not doing anything you don't want me to do. I just want you to talk to me."  
  
"That's funny. You didn't want to talk to me the last time I saw you."  
  
Napoleon sighed, ran his fingers through his hair. "I was drunk. You didn't really give me a chance to explain."  
  
Illya walked past him, took the liberty of pouring a glass of sherry from Pike's bureau. "I didn't think I could stand there and listen to you throw our lives away."  
  
"I tried to find you, Illya. I went to your apartment. I called Waverly, I called April, hell, I even called Moscow. I went to Paris, San Francisco, Vancouver... everywhere we've ever been together."  
  
"Napoleon, I..."  
  
"I'm not finished, tovarisch. I need to tell you about Bunny."  
  
Illya looked down at the glass he held, then set it on the bureau, only half tasted. "Bunny. Your wife.”  
  
"Ex-wife. I met her and I thought...I thought I could maybe ease my loneliness. Illya, she liked me, in a genuine way. Do you remember Swanson, in Chicago?"  
  
Illya nodded.  
  
"Well, Bunny was what Swanson would have said was 'bone deep stupid.' She wasn't funny, she wasn't clever, and she wasn't what I wanted in a partner. She only looked like someone I wanted."  
  
"She..." Illya was speechless for a moment. "Napoleon, I saw the photograph in the paper. She looked like me."  
  
Napoleon sat in a chair. "She somewhat resembled you, and I told her to get her hair cut and dyed blond. And when she did, she looked enough like you that I could just forget for a while that I had lost you. All I wanted to do was forget."  
  
"Forget?"  
  
"Not what we shared. Never that, Illya. I wanted to forget that my stupidity forced your hand. I wanted to forget that I couldn't hold you, talk to you, laugh with you," Napoleon said, his voice becoming softer. "I never understood what love was. I thought it was how it made me feel. But I realized that love was something that we do. It’s the life we build together, or didn’t build. I left you with no other choice, and I’m so sorry. Illya, I can never apologize enough.“  
  
“You don’t have to apologize. I’ve made mistakes, too.“  
  
Napoleon’s hand shook, his eyes were wet with tears. “I couldn't...don't you understand, Illya? I was rootless, drifting, and you were my only anchor. When you left..." His voice broke on a sob.  
  
Illya walked to the chair, put his hand on Napoleon's face. He rubbed his thumb over his friend's cheekbone. "Napoleon, I didn‘t know..." He drew Napoleon to his feet, wrapped his arms around him.  
  
Napoleon’s breathing was ragged and soft. “Illya… I can’t lose you again. It would kill me.”  
  
Illya looked up. He lifted his hand to Napoleon‘s chest, an old gesture, but one that spoke volumes. His hand, warm and solid, resting on Napoleon‘s heart, told them everything that they needed to know.  
  
They could never change the past, but they could begin again.  
  
Napoleon set his hands on Illya's slim shoulders, buried his nose in his blond hair. "I love you."  
  
"Pasha. Oh, my Pasha. I know," he whispered, then pressed his lips to Napoleon's.  
  
  


There are no stars tonight   
But those of memory.   
Yet how much room for memory there is   
In the loose girdle of soft rain.

\-- from "My Grandma's Love Letters" by Hart Crane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned in the notes for Act I, this was previously posted on my writing journal a few years ago. Since then, this story has inspired a few standalone works by other artists, including fanart and a fic based off of Illya's time as Professor Kulik, all of which have been posted at various communities on livejournal. I am honored and humbled to have inspired so many people with this work of love.
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed this, the initial story in what became a fully realized AU.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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